Trebuchet stands across the room, not moving, not breathing—at least not in any human way. Tubes run from his spine into the wall behind him. His single red optic glows faintly, a steady slow pulse like a heartbeat…if a heartbeat could be mechanical and utterly inhuman.
His voice crackles from somewhere deep in his chest. “You regain consciousness quickly. Impressive.”
I don’t reply. I let my eyes stay half-lidded, dazed. It’s an old survival tactic—one nobody ever expects from adults, only from children. Lucky for me, I never fully lost it.
He tilts his head to the side, curious, like he’s examining a lab specimen. “Still alive. Still breathing. Still unnecessary.”
My pulse spikes at that word—unnecessary—but my face doesn’t move.
He doesn’t know me. Not really. He thinks I’m a fragile thing Vokar picked up out of sentiment. He thinks I break easily.
And that’s exactly why I’m going to win.
Trebuchet turns toward the wall console. It lights under his touch—thin cables snaking out of his wrist and plugging into the interface like parasitic veins. The screen displays strings of code I can’t fully parse, but one part stands out: a pulsing blue module shaped like a heart.
Life Support Nexus.
I watch. Still silent. Still “weak.”
The console beeps once, softly, as he adjusts something. I hear a hiss behind him—some internal valve opening. His motion stutters. A soft exhale escapes him, mechanical but unmistakably…necessary.
Oh.
OH.
Trebuchetneedsthat console.
My ribs ache as I shift an inch against the wall. He doesn’t notice—too engrossed in whatever diagnostics he’s running. The console flickers through several windows: oxygen mix ratios, coolant flow, neural link stability, servo lag. He adjusts all of them.
It’s a life support tether.
His leash.
And I’ve found it.
A single spark of fierce, startled hope punches through my exhaustion. Not enough to cheer, but enough to breathe again.
I almost smile. Almost.
He unhooks from the console, straightens, and turns back toward me. I let my eyes close halfway again, forcing my face slack.
“Your warlord died screaming,” Trebuchet says.
My fingers twitch involuntarily. Anger. Pain. Something deeper.
He notices, but misreads it.
“Ah. There it is. Emotional response.” His red optic brightens fractionally. “That’s why biologicals are inferior. Predictable.”
Predictable?
He doesn’t know me at all.
He drifts closer, servos humming faintly, and crouches beside me. A cold hand, all metal plates and sharp edges, grips my chin—not gently, but not brutally either. Just clinically.
“You are small,” he states. “Soft. Weak boned. You were a liability the moment Vokar looked at you.”
I almost laugh. He has no idea how many times I’ve heard that. How many times I survivedbecausepeople thought I was breakable.
